"If you could only see the way she loves me, Then maybe you would understand"

Standing in the center of this understated yet magnificent room hardly touched by time, I forget what brought me here. Instead, I imagine I’m a part of the roaring 1920s and spending an April weekend away in my luxurious summer cottage. My pencil post king bed is the center of attention. The sitting areas -- one with a loveseat and ottoman, the other with a small circular table and two upholstered chairs, a wood finish oval-framed cheval mirror, and fireplace are mere accessories. Outside, standing on my balcony, I can see the in-ground swimming pool, not yet opened for the summer. Around it is the sprawling and well-maintained yard. Yet neither the grounds nor bedroom can compete with the astounding master bathroom. Easily the same square footage as the bedroom, the emerald green and black granite masterpiece boasts a two-person hot tub with steps leading up to it. Overhead are two skylights and behind it, a wide picture window with a rounded top to steal the last of my attention. I stand with my mouth wide open, awestruck, convinced this is heaven. A second too late, I realize this is not how my 1920s alter ego would react. She’d expect this. After all, this is her getaway cottage.

Returning to reality and the notion that two nights in this off-season paradise costs half our monthly mortgage payment, I remember what brought us here. We desperately need a relaxing and romantic weekend away. Holding a plate of inn-made oatmeal raisin cookies, I await our fantastic adventure, eager to focus on us.

The next morning, I carefully exit the most luxurious bath. With a deep exhale, I stand in the center of the room taking in its layout. Toilet and enclosed shower are behind me. Before me is an emerald green and black granite countertop with two sinks that match the tub's raised landing. Our toiletries are spread over it. From the countertop to the ceiling stretching the distance to the door, a minimum of ten feet, is a glimmering mirror. I look into it, noticing it follows the shape of the room, even over a corner.

I smile. A ghastly atrocity grins at me. I gasp. Standing in just a towel, I see someone I don’t recognize. She resembles me, but not the me I remember. There’s a new literal layer to her. Making a conscious note that the towel barely wraps fully around her, I note the differences between us. She’s puffy like having been stung by a bee and the swelling has collected in her cheeks and chin. She wears a flesh-colored scarf. There’s no definition between her shoulders, triceps, and biceps; one part rolls right into the next. Removing the towel, I turn to see her back and gulp air loudly at the extra skin padding where bra and its clasps usually sit. I count the rolls that cascade down her back into her cottage cheese textured butt. Turning to face the mirror head on, I can’t see distinction between her upper, mid, and lower tummy. Her hips are padded as though she’s taking extreme precautions for a roller derby bout. Her thighs are embraced like teenagers in a passionate kiss, refusing to break apart.

Defeated, and noticeably inflated, I put the towel back on and walk away questioning my relationship with her. The next few days, long after our return home, I wonder how much of what I saw was perspective versus reality.

I battle the question and the philosophical responses. I reminisce how I used to be ninja-like and how she is resembles a jumbo marshmallow. I know I'm exaggerating somewhat as I still wear the same clothing size as I did in high school. But, I don't look the same as I did then. My weight has shifted. Despite exercising and living a relatively healthy lifestyle, complete with a regimen of vitamins, something fell out of sync. I know this changed body doesn't represent me, but I rationalize it's because I'm older and my metabolism has slowed. I decide to accept “perspective” and despite an ongoing bloated feeling, pledge to do better. I will eat better. I will move more and push my limits in exercise. I feel better, or maybe I'm just all cried out.

As I come to my conclusion, I dress for work knowing I will be on a construction site for a short time. Wearing jeans, a gray top with three-quarter sleeves and bold magenta and black lines across the torso, I feel more like myself than I have in weeks. Standing on the corner of a busy intersection at the edge of the construction site with a memo pad and camera phone in hand, I jot notes, take pictures, and absorb the atmosphere of the Western Massachusetts city. Exhaling a deep breath, a sedan with its windows down, blaring music, and four teenagers in the car speeds by. I turn to face them as one shouts out at me, “Show us your fat ass, Shorty.”

Instantly, without emotion or reaction, I hear confirmation as if I'm back in that beautiful bathroom standing in front of the excessively large mirror. “Nope. Not perspective,” she says from the other side.

“Yup. This is reality. Point taken."